This morning I sit at my desk
and watch students grieving
on the couch : tears, quiet talk,
and one girl shaking.
half-embarrassed at her lack
of composure, perhaps because
the friend who died in the crash
the night before can't sit with them,
nor share the hollow shake of loss.
Her actions are left in a shell
empty of sorrow, the minutes
of her death, mute and eternal.
I go to them, an apostle,
A servant of sorrow, and touch each
on the shoulder; hug the girl
so bent with pain, I say nothing,
remembering Romeo and Juliet
is all about the separate
country of the young.
I leave them to youthful whispers,
A language I no longer speak.
I think hard for the father
who, in darkness, went searching for
his daughter, and happened on the wreck.